


would you be (my best friend)

by celluloidheroes



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Beatles as kids, Fluff, M/M, john is riddled with angst even as a 6 y/o im sorry, just because?, paul is cute tho, read for cute paul, this is utter drivel sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidheroes/pseuds/celluloidheroes
Summary: Five year-old Paul McCartney wears ribbons in his hair for the sake of Jane Asher, whom he wants to marry, and can play an impressive (albeit fragmentary) rendition of She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain on the piano. Six year-old John Lennon is perpetually sulky and detests Paul gratuitously - although he's taken to staring pensively at him for reasons inexplicable.





	1. in which paul wears pink ribbons in his hair

**Author's Note:**

> All I can do at this point is apologise profusely. I haven't re-read this to check for errors, so feel free to point any out. I wrote this on a bit of a whim, I'm afraid. Enjoy? :-)

Paul McCartney's favourite day of the week is Friday. Not only are there fish and chips for lunch, plus an hour's golden time in the afternoon if he's been good (he always has), but before break Miss Ridley sits everyone down and hands out the Friendship Cards. He always gets at least ten - the most in the class - and this week he's spent an extra long time making a card for Jane Asher, who wears shiny shoes with bows on the straps and has big blue eyes and neat plaits tied with ribbons.

Today the ribbons are a pretty pink, and Paul shyly tells her he likes them after he forces his way past everyone else to sit next to her on the carpet. She blushes fuchsia and asks if he wants ribbons in his hair too, and even though he doesn't want to seem like a _girl_ he says yes because he likes her very much. Giggling, she unties her ribbons and ties them in his hair with painstaking precision, sticking out her tongue in concentration. She looks silly, Paul thinks. But somehow she's still pretty.

"You're very beautiful, Jane," Paul tells her earnestly, and she grins in delight.

"You look beautiful with my ribbons," she teases, poking him in the side, and he jumps away with a wild laugh, poking her back and grinning when she shrieks.

"Paul, calm down," Miss Ridley warns, admonitory, and he shrinks dutifully into a cross-legged position, biting on his thumb to contain a smile. She double-takes when she notices his hair, and chuckles - though reluctantly.

"Very fetching, Paul," Miss Ridley tells him fondly, tone vaguely reminiscent of a doting mother, and Paul and Jane fall into heaps of giggles. The whole class is quick to join in too, because that's the kind of effect Paul McCartney has on other people.

He gets thirteen cards that day, and one of them is pale pink and covered with silver glitter and bows. Inside someone has written his name considerably neatly for a five-year-old (it's legible, at least), with five wobbly kisses and a big red heart. Jane blushes furiously beside him, and he can't stop smiling.

"You're my bestest friend, Janey," he whispers in her ear, even when Miss Ridley shoots him an objurgating glance, and she wraps him in a brief hug that smells like bubblegum shampoo.

Their teacher releases them for break, and as Paul rushes out to the playground George Harrison catches his arm. He's quiet and sullen and surprisingly intelligent, and even though the other children tend to shun him Paul rather enjoys his company. He's got far more imagination than most of the other children. Sometimes they pretend to be rock stars - Paul is the lead singer, of course, and George plays the guitar. One day they're going to form a proper band: Paul can play _She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain_ fairly well on the family piano, after all, and George's older brother owns an acoustic guitar that they could nick.

"Is Jane going to be your girlfriend?" George whispers as they make their way toward the slide, eyes wide and curious.

"Maybe," Paul shrugs carelessly, eyes sliding over to where Peter Best is grinning down at Jane, tugging gently at her unravelling plaits. _Too bad,_ he thinks triumphantly. _I've_   _got her bow._ He _hasn't._

"Let's play rock stars," Paul decides, and George grins his approval.

"We're playing at a massive concert," George begins dramatically, eyes scrunched shut, "there's ten _bazillion_ people there! Pattie is in the front row-" Paul rolls his eyes, "-and so is Jane!"

Just as George is breaking into a particularly intense guitar solo, someone sneers "Hello, _princess,_ " behind him. Initially Paul doesn't react - why would anyone be calling him that, after all? - but when a hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him round he is forced to turn.

George looks terrified, mouth forming a perfect _o_ shape, and he's already inadvertently backing away when John Lennon shoots Paul a sardonic smile. Paul mentally groans; John Lennon has always hated him (well, he doesn't _really_ like anyone) for no reason in particular. He supposes John is jealous; everyone likes Paul, and nobody seems to like him, mostly because he's always so brash and callous.

"Hello, John," Paul smiles, wringing his hands nervously.

"I like yer ribbons," John drawls, "you look like a _girl_."

Paul scowls then, crossing his arms in front of himself. "I'm not a girl," he insists defensively.

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Whatever. You'd make an _ugly_ girl anyway," John snorts, tugging his ribbons so harshly that they fall from his hair and onto the grass. Grinning maliciously, he stamps on the ribbon with his shoe, burying it in the mud. Paul feels his bottom lip tremble, and John only smirks as he pushes past him and toward George, who cleverly realises it's time to leave and dashes toward the classroom with comically flailing limbs.

As John turns to leave, he shoots Paul a menacing look and hisses "motherfucker." Paul doesn't know what that means, but he feels suitably offended anyway. With one last disdainful glare, John stalks after George.

Falling back into the dirt, Paul holds the ruined ribbon in his hands and wipes away the tears obscuring his vision, sniffling angrily. He hates John Lennon, he decides. _He's_ the mother-pucker. Or mother-trucker. Whatever. 


	2. in which john is (still) sulky and enigmatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. yeah. this is rubbish again. really, truly. sorry. )-:

When Paul arrives home that day he runs straight into the arms of his mother, who is happy just to hold him, gently stroking his hair as his body shudders with sobs. The muddied ribbon has been discarded dejectedly aside, with the promise that Mary will wash it and return it to Jane as good as new.

"'M not a girl," he mumbles, disconsolate, and Mary hums in response, rocking him back and forth. 

"There wouldn't be anything wrong with it if you were, though, would there?" she asks quietly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

"Yeah, but I'm _not_ ," he protests, voice cracking in incredulity, "I was only wearing the bows cos of Jane."

“Jane, eh?" she asks, grinning wolfishly, "who's she?" 

Paul ducks his head, embarrassed. "Don't tell da'," he says slowly, leaning in to whisper in her ear, "but I'm in love." 

"Ah," Mary chuckles, rubbing his cheek with the pad of her thumb, "you've caught the love bug then, eh?"

"Yeah," Paul says distractedly, "uh, mummy?" 

"Yes, my love?" 

"What's an- an _mother pucker?_ "

There's a moment's silence, and Paul wonders if he's said something awful, but then his mother bursts out laughing, leaning her forehead against his shoulder as he watches bemusedly. His confusion only serves to fuel her amusement further, and her eyes are streaming with tears as she holds herself, giggling uncontrollably. Jim bursts into the bedroom then, features etched with concern. 

“What've you done, Paul?" he asks sharply, and Paul's eyes narrow defensively. 

“Nothin'!" he splutters, and his mum snorts in a manner most unflattering, then emits a pained groan as she clutches her stomach. 

"Look what you've done!" Jim inculpates, skin creased with concern, and rushes to Mary's side, pressing an attentive hand to her stomach. Scoffing, she waves his hands away and shifts back toward Paul. 

"Leave him, Jim," she mumbles, tone curiously sheepish, "he hasn't done anything, darling." 

Jim frowns, eyeing Paul warily. "Just - just be careful with your ma, alright?" 

Paul doesn't quite know what to think about his father's sudden chastising, but guilt twists unpleasantly in his gut when he realises just how pale his mum has turned: her face is white as a sheet, her eyes seem to be bulging out of their sockets and her bottom lip is trembling. She looks awful - even worse, perhaps, than the time she got particularly awful sunburn on their annual trip to Bognor Regis. Nonetheless, when Mary takes him back into her arms all previous concerns are disregarded and he focuses instead on the comforting hand rubbing circles into the small of his back, incrementally sending him into a soporific state of obliviousness.  

•

After Friday's tribulations Paul is reluctant to return to school, even on the premise that he will see Jane again. The pink ribbon - now freshly washed and ironed upon Paul's demand - is curled up in his breast pocket, and every so often he rubs the soft silk between his fingers. Since being washed the bubblegum scent has dwindled slightly. Paul can only hope that Jane will offer him another ribbon; perhaps if he makes her an equally fabulous friendship card this week she'll be tempted. 

His mum doesn't drop him into school this morning so he's in low spirits anyway; he can't curl into her duffel coat when John Lennon shoots him a particularly unpleasant glare as he approaches the school gates, nor can he clasp her hand for comfort. Instead he struggles to keep up with Jim's brisk pace and tries to hide behind his legs as they wait together on the playground for the children to be sent to first period. Jim, who has never been the most affectionate or nurturing of fathers, only huffs irritably and tugs Paul out from behind him with a long-suffering sigh. 

Nonetheless Paul tries his very best to ignore John's ferocious glare, and even manages to stick his tongue out daringly when John sticks his thumb and forefinger to his forehead in the shape of an L. Unfortunately, the woman dropping him off (who has a frighteningly tight grip on his shoulder, Paul notices, as if she's worried he might make a run for it at any moment) catches sight of Paul across the playground and shoots him an admonishing look that soon has him cowering behind Jim again. 

“Right," Jim grumbles as the bell rings shrilly, "you be a good boy today, alright?" 

"I _will_ ," Paul huffs, sticking his chest out proudly, "I always am." 

"And don't you bother your ma either," he continues, tone grave, and Paul nods impatiently. 

"Course I won't," he insists, catching sight of George across the playground and waving in his direction frantically, "bye da'!" 

Jim sighs as he watches his son speed off in the direction of the quiet, lanky kid he's so strangely fond of, and hopes to God that Paul will take heed to his words.

Unfortunately, Paul is distracted by dreams of rockstars and owning a big fluffy pet dog and Jane Asher being his adoring wife, and because of this he scarcely acknowledges his father's warnings and instead babbles to George about the new piece he's taught himself on piano. 

"Twinkle twinkle little star?" George repeats dubiously, wrinkling his nose, "but that's for babies!" 

"Yes, but we can make it super cool and rock-y," Paul insists enthusiastically, eyes bright. "Anyway," He adds, a tad sheepish, "it's all I can play at the moment." 

"When we next have a sleepover we'll nick my brother's guitar," George says, eyebrows wriggling deviously, "then we can be real rock stars!" 

"I might need to grow my hair a bit first," Paul considers, running a hand through his carefully combed hair, "after all, all rock stars have long hair!" 

"Yeah," George agrees, then giggles hysterically, "they have hair _there_ too!" He whispers, pointing to his chest with a manic grin, and Paul bursts into laughter, cheeks dimpling and eyes scrunched shut. 

“Right, George, Paul! No time for chattering now!" 

As Miss Ridley ushers them into the classroom with an ever-familiar roll of her eyes, Pete Best approaches them from behind with an amiable grin. 

"Hello, princess!" He greets Paul delightedly, evidently very pleased with himself for copying John's creative nickname. Paul instinctively curls in on himself, frowning slightly, then cries out as Pete is suddenly shoved into him. 

" _Ouch_!" He whines indignantly, eyes swivelling round to meet the culprit - only to find John Lennon staring at him, gaze ardent and steadfast, amber eyes flitting almost nervously from Pete, who lies at his feet groaning, then back up to Paul, who watches with confusion, wondering what could have provoked such an attack. Although, he thinks carelessly, John's always getting into fights. His legs are always littered with purply-blue bruises, and his knuckles are often scraped and bloodied from where he's punched either an unsuspecting child or the wall. 

"John Lennon!" Miss Ridley exclaims furiously, bustling through crowds of curious children with first aid kit in tow and kneeling beside Pete, who has scraped his knees slightly. Immediately, she whips out some sort of antiseptic and empties it onto a cotton bud, dabbing it at his knee. Despite a few tears he hardly complains, and Paul silently admires his valiance. 

"I'll be phoning your aunt later," she tells him angrily, and John folds his arms disobediently, scowling. 

"Don’t care," he tells her bravely, and the whole class gasps collectively. 

"Right," She says, jaw tight, "that's time out for you, young man. Go and stand by the wall." 

John only sticks his chin resolutely in the air, unabashed. "Fine," he spits, and marches to the wall. 

He remains there even when lessons begin, and after a very stern talking to he returns to the classroom. Paul expects him to be sniffling slightly at the least, but his gaze remains impassive. He glares at Paul when he catches him looking, and Paul quickly glances back down to his drawing of a dog and tunes into Jane's aimless maundering instead. 

When they go out to break John remains in isolation in the classroom, and Paul feels a strange tug of guilt in his chest as he watches him sit alone at a table through the windows, expression even more sulky than usual. Eventually he gives in and enters the classroom hesitantly, gnawing at his bottom lip. 

"What do you want?" John grumbles half-heartedly. 

"I was just checking if you were okay," Paul smiles nervously, feeling a flush spread right to the tips of his ears. 

"Why're you chewing your lip like that?" John demands, ignoring his concerns, "You look like a _rabbit_!" 

Pouting, Paul stops the action immediately, already feeling his eyes glass over. "You're so mean!" He exclaims, "why don't you like me?" He lowers his voice slightly. "It's because I got more friendship cards than you, isn't it?" 

"What?" John scoffs, "I don't care about stupid friendship cards! They're for _losers_!" 

"You're the loser," Paul insists, but it's a God-awful attempt at a comeback and he knows it. John knows it, too, judging by the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"Whatever. At least I'm not _stupid_ ," John sneers, tiny arms folded, "you and that Pete Best. You're the stupidest in the whole school!"

"Yeah, well, you're the stupidest in the whole _universe_ ," Paul retorts smugly, quite pleased with himself, but John remains unimpressed. 

"Why'd you punch Pete, anyway?" Paul asks suddenly, eyes wide and inquisitive. John averts his eyes to the table then, frowning slightly. 

"Well, he called you names, didn't he?" 

"He called me princess," Paul corrects, "and you called me it first, so it's your fault." 

"Yeah, well. He can't call you that," John insists, cheeks stained red, "I called you it first, after all."

Paul isn't sure he understands. He doesn't understand much when it comes to John, he realises. 

Miss Ridley, on the other hand, understands only too well, and finds herself smiling fondly as she listens to their conversation unfold.

John Lennon isn't a bad kid, she tells herself. Not really. He's just terribly vulnerable. All he really needs is a friend. 

Paul and John would make excellent friends, she thinks wistfully. If only they didn't detest each other quite so much.


	3. in which john shows genuine human emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh shit just got depressing. im really sorry if this chapter seems too fast-paced but i imagine events like this to be rather unexpected - im also sorry if this chapter seems too short, but this story is only going to be around 10k words overall.

Several weeks later John's torment has ceased no less: in lieu of pushing around the other children he has focused his scorn on Paul alone and, as well as the constant sneering and sardonic comments, he has grown overly fond of the nickname Princess. Paul has tried telling Miss Ridley, but she simply smiles and shrugs, as if John's behaviour is beyond her control.

"He's better behaved than ever before, Paul," she tells him, "he's just trying to be friendly."

"He's mean," Paul insists, face scrunching up, "he's mean and he calls me rude names and he's a – a _mother trucker._ "

 _"I beg your pardon?_ "

For the first time ever Paul spends break time in disgrace. Admittedly there are a few tears shed: being holed up in the classroom while his friends are outside is punishment enough, but spotting Jane Asher tie a baby blue ribbon into a smitten Pete Best's hair is the last straw. Hunched up with his knees to his chest, an unceasing scowl digs deep into his features, and his eyes are bright with tears.

John practically struts into the classroom partway through his imprisonment, smirking smugly as he deliberately waltzes past Paul, milking his freedom for all it's worth. Huffing, Paul rests his head atop his knees, determined to ignore John's antics. He's far too mature to succumb to John's childish behaviour anyway. Obviously.

When he's eventually released - after Miss Ridley warns him that his parents have been phoned to discuss his inappropriate language - he runs straight to George, who's sat cross-legged on the ground, tugging irritably at the grass. Naturally he's terribly bored without Paul to keep him company.

"I hate John," Paul proclaims as he flops down beside George, lying on his back with one hand shielding his eyes from the fervent May sunshine.

"He is very scary," George agrees seriously, scrutinising Paul with his frighteningly omniscient stare.

"No," Paul argues, "he's not scary at all. He's just _mean_. For no reason!"

"He is so! 'specially when he's running at you like - like an angry bull!" George pulls out a clump of grass with particular vigour, and Paul clutches his wrist with a frown.

"You're pulling out the daisies," he protests, lips downturned, reaching out to take the flowers from George's tight grip.

"Why d'you care about the daisies?" George grins, watching as Paul twirls a flower between his thumb and forefinger.

"Cos you can make chains from them, _look_ ," Paul tells him, carefully prising the stalk apart with clumsy fingers, "me ma taught me."

Unlike Paul's maladroit handwork, George's bony fingers prove dexterous and soon he's formed a daisy chain several metres long while Paul is struggling through a measly bracelet. Jane approaches them in the midst of their antics, and sits cross-legged beside Paul with a hopeful smile.

"Pretty," she breathes, reaching out to touch George's chain. He jerks it away from her, scowling.

"Careful!" he objurgates, and she flinches away slightly. "They're delicate," he tells her seriously, and she nods slowly, bemused.

"I could make you a crown!" Paul butts in eagerly, desperate to make amends. Jane grins delightedly, clapping her hands together.

"Thank you, Paulie!" she enthuses, shuffling closer to Paul to watch him over his shoulder, "you really are my best friend, you know."

Paul grins widely, twisting his head to face her. "not Pete?"

"No! You look _much_ more beautiful than he does with ribbons in your hair," she tells him earnestly.

George head snaps up, "what about me, Paulie?" he protests indignantly, "I thought I was your best friend!"

"Well," Paul says slowly, blushing furiously, "Jane's my best friend. But the kind of best friend that you want to marry."

"Like a girlfriend?" George interrogates, tactless as always, and Jane gasps.

"I'm not old enough to get married," Jane tells him apologetically, "not yet."

"It's alright," Paul grins, tying the last of the daisies together, "we could do it in secret."

"You could elope," George provides unhelpfully. Paul doesn't know what he means, but he nods anyway.

"Yeah," he agrees sagely, "we could - do that."

"Maybe," Jane says dubiously, biting her lip, "I don't know what my mummy and daddy would think, though." 

"Well, you wouldn't tell them," George tells her, rolling her eyes as if she's said something incredibly stupid, " _duh_." He doesn't seem to realise that he's ruining Paul's chances of ever marrying Jane. 

Just as Paul is about to very courteously ask George to go away and leave them alone so that they can elope in peace, Miss Ridley marches across the playground with her eyes locked on Paul. Initially he's concerned that he's still in trouble, but when she reaches him her expression is apologetic, and her eyes are strangely watery. George watches the ordeal unfold suspiciously, eyebrows drawn together in careful consideration. 

"You need to come back indoors now, Paul," she tells him seriously, "your father is here." 

Paul frowns, frustrated, "I haven't _done_ anything!"

"Yeah!" George echoes defensively, "he hasn't done anything!" 

Sighing, she places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about the bad language, Paul. We'll talk about that another time." 

" _What_ bad language?" Paul splutters, but he's already being led away, leaving George and Jane staring after him with expressions of equal bewilderment.

“Where's mummy?" Paul asks as he's dragged across the playground. Miss Ridley ignores him, only loosening her grip on his wrist when Paul loudly protests that she's ripping his hand off. When George tries to follow them with his usual subtlety (or lack thereof) Miss Ridley - gentle, patient Miss Ridley who only ever raises her voice when absolutely necessary - snaps at him to leave them alone. Paul realises that something serious has happened, something dreadful. Surely what he called John wasn't _that_ awful? 

Instead of being taken back to the classroom he is escorted directly to reception, and by then he's in a completely panicked state; beads of sweat stick his fringe to his forehead, and an apprehensive flush has spread over his face and neck. Miss Ridley stops him then, and kneels before him with a grave expression. Paul feels his bottom lip wobble slightly. 

"Now, Paul," she tells him quietly, "what your father is about to tell you may be - well, it may be rather upsetting." 

"What?" Paul cries out, feeling hot tears sting his eyes and meander down his cheeks, "I didn't mean to be horrible, miss. Really." 

"I know you didn't, sweetheart," Miss Ridley soothes, reaching out to wipe his tears away with her thumb, "none of this is your fault, Paul." She smiles at him, but it's more melancholic than comforting. 

"Is he here?" He hears Jim ask abruptly, and Paul jumps, cowering backwards so to avoid his father's reproving gaze. 

"Talk to your father, Paul," Miss Ridley tells him, tone gentle but firm, and he finds himself stepping forward shakily in acquiescence, thumb stuck in his mouth. 

"Paul, buddy," Jim begins awkwardly, and only then does Paul notice the greyish tinge to his skin; the over-prominent wrinkles dug deep into his features; his pale, watery eyes. 

"Your mother isn't well," he announces eventually, "she - she collapsed earlier, Paulie." 

Paul doesn't know what to say. Besides feeling an unpleasant twist of dread in his gut, he's beyond confused; his mum is never ill. She's always been full of childlike energy: ready to comply to Paul's every demand, taking part in every one of his trivial games, keeping the entire family content even in the direst of situations. This is the same woman who brushes off her yearly colds with an indifferent shrug, who once broke her ankle chasing Paul up the stairs but refused to use crutches even when she could scarcely stand. Mary McCartney doesn't do ill. She just doesn't.

His thoughts are broken by Jim promptly bursting into tears, face buried in large, calloused hands. Paul is petrified. He's never seen Jim cry before. He’s a proper scouser, after all. Scousers don’t _cry_. 

"Daddy," He says, voice muffled due to the thumb in his mouth, "daddy, I don't understand." 

"Oh, Paulie," Jim gathers Paul into his arms, sobbing relentlessly. The back of his school jumper dampens with tears, and Paul dithers awkwardly, not quite sure what's happening.

"Here, Paul," Miss Ridley says quietly, pulling him aside as his father hides his face in his hands, shoulders heaving, "your father is going to take you to see your mummy, alright? She's not very well at the moment."

"Where is she?" Paul demands. 

"She's - she's in hospital, sweetheart." 

"Hospital?" Paul enquires, cocking his head, "is that where I went when I stuck the apple pip up my nose?" 

"Well - Well, I don't know," she says, eyeing Jim warily, "I expect so." 

"Has mummy got an apple pip up her nose?" 

"No, Paul. No. She hasn't. I'm afraid it's a little more serious than that." 

He lowers his voice slightly. "Is she going with the angels?"

"N-No, Paul.” Then she smiles determinedly, squeezes his shoulder, “Don’t worry. She’ll be absolutely fine. She just took a little tumble, that’s all.” 

"I wouldn't want her to go with the angels,” Paul announces solemnly. 

"Look, Paul. You go and grab your school bag from the cloakroom. I'll drive you and your daddy to the hospital, eh? Then you can see your mother." 

Paul obliges, and as he dashes off he watches Miss Ridley slide an arm around his father's shoulder as he cries pitifully, murmuring in his ear. Paul hopes she's telling him everything will be okay. It always makes him feel better when she says that. 

As he gathers his satchel and coat from the cloakroom John appears with a frightening scowl plastered over his features. Unsurprisingly, there is a blueish bruise beginning to form under his eye, and his auburn curls ( _not_ ginger - Paul has made that dreadful mistake before) are in a dishevelled state, having abandoned their usual slicked-back do in favour of something vaguely resembling a bird’s nest. Sniffling, Paul wipes under his eyes. John Lennon catching him crying of all people would only make matters worse. 

“ _What_?” He sneers as he pushes forcefully past Paul to snatch a Scooby Doo lunchbox from his allocated peg. Paul only shrinks further in on himself, willing for John to leave so he can have a private cry before he visits his mum. 

“Are you crying?” John asks suddenly, tone a strange mixture of mordancy and bemusement. 

“Course not,” Paul sniffs, dragging his sleeve furiously over his watery eyes. 

“Looks like you are,” John retorts, then adds “ _baby_ ” as an afterthought. Paul finds a sob inadvertently crawling up his throat no matter how much he tries to suppress it, and it explodes from his mouth as a half-cry-half-hiccup, and John  falters slightly, alarmed. Once he’s started he can’t stop: huge, gasping sobs force their way out of his mouth, and tears streak deridingly down his cheeks, stopping him from forming a comprehensible sentence. For the first time ever John looks mildly concerned, and if he weren’t so worked up Paul would feel triumphant. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks carefully, as if he’s not sure whether it would be acceptable to show concern. Or any normal human emotions, it seems. 

“Go away,” Paul mumbles half-heartedly, hiccuping disconsolately.

John doesn’t go away. He stares at Paul curiously, as if he can’t quite make him out, not even flinching when Paul pushes past him pointedly. 

“Is it because I called you names?” He asks desperately, tone vaguely resembling guilt. 

“No,” Paul mutters, cheeks burning, “my mummy’s just ill, that’s all.” 

“What? Is she a vegetable?” John asks, cocking his head. 

“ _What_? No, she’s a mummy!” 

“No, _stupid_. I mean can she move?” 

Paul frowns confusedly, “of course she can!” 

“Then she’s fine, isn’t she?” John says flatly. “Stop being a baby!” 

“I am not!”

”Yes you are,” John affirms sneeringly, “You’re not just a baby either. You’re a princess! A stupid girly _princess_!” 

Paul feels his bottom lip wobble, and pushes past John before he can realise he’s begun crying again. Like a baby. 

When he reaches reception he almost wishes he’d stayed in the cloakroom. Jim has stopped crying, but his cheeks are damp and red, and Miss Ridley keeps giving him sympathetic looks. He just doesn’t _understand_. 

Miss Ridley takes a deep breath. “are you ready to leave, Paul?”

He nods hesitantly, slipping his hand into hers for comfort. She squeezes his hand rather too tightly than necessary, but he’s grateful nonetheless. With Jim in tow they pile into her ancient Mini, and during the silent journey Paul wonders what awaits him at the hospital.

He remembers the accusing look Jim gave him earlier today and stills. What if it’s his fault? His stomach lurches. Suddenly the car seems a whole lot stuffier than it had done moments beforehand. The urban scenery passes in a blur, and he clutches his stomach, insides churning. All he can feel is indescribable bouts of guilt, and the sting of eyes prickling mordaciously at his eyes, spilling down his pinked cheeks before he can stop himself, and he clutches his stomach and sucks fervently at his thumb in an attempt to feel better, staring unblinkingly at the dirtied window as they drive to the hospital, trying desperately to ignore the sick feeling tugging at his gut. 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. in which paul is oblivious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the EXTREMELY belated chapter 4! I plan on beginning the next chapter almost immediately after this is posted so I can guarantee that it will be finished relatively soon - unfortunately, the releasement of my GCSE results and my college enrolment is in two days time, so that may set me back a little. However, hopefully from then on the updates will be fairly regular! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!! This is unedited excluding a quick once-over, so please do point out any mistakes. :-)

Paul isn't quite sure he recognises his mother. While Jim certainly hadn't looked his best that morning, he is nothing in comparison to Mary; her skin sags wearily, clinging desperately to protruding bones, and her eyes are sunk deep into her head, and they blink in bewilderment when Paul slinks timidly into the seat beside her bed. Still, her russet curls spread about her face like a halo, untameable as ever. She already looks like an angel, Paul thinks wretchedly.

"Hello, lovie." Her voice is frighteningly croaky, and Paul finds himself flinching away from her as she reaches out a limp, withering hand. Jim shoots him a rebuking glance, and his gaze instantly falls to the polished floor.

"Hello mummy," he whispers dutifully.

"Oh, my darling boy," she whispers hoarsely, and when manically shaking hands reach out to him he springs from his seat, clinging to Jim's sleeve. The latter shakes Paul off impatiently and takes the seat beside her bed instead, murmuring surreptitiously to his wife. Paul scuffs his school shoes against the floor, wondering when his mummy will be released. He never gets to go to hospital when he takes a tumble. All he gets is a plaster to his knee and a kiss to the forehead. 

This is his first proper hospital visit – excluding the apple pip ordeal, of course, but that somehow feels trivial in comparison to the strange whitewashed walls and the overwhelming smell of lemon antiseptic and the patients with complicated tubes stuck in their noses and needles jabbed in their arms. Paul scrunches his eyes shut and holds his breath and pretends he’s somewhere – _anywhere_ -else, but his escalating thoughts are soon distracted by a gentle tap to the shoulder. When he peeks one eye open there’s a nurse stood in front of him.

"Hello, sweetheart," she greets him; she's young and pink-cheeked and awfully pretty, with bouncy blonde curls and a crimson smile. “I’m nurse Olivia. What’s your name?”

"Hello," he says earnestly, "I’m James Paul McCartney, but everyone calls me Paul because my daddy is also called James and having _two_ Jameses would be very confusing. Have you got any plasters?"

Olivia blinks at the rush of information, but quickly recovers from her bemusement. "Have you hurt yourself?" She asks gently, crouching down beside him.

"No, miss. I meant for my mummy. She might have cut her knees when she took a tumble," Paul tells her, watching wide-eyed as her expression softens and she leans in closer. She smells flowery, he notes. Like sweet-pea.

"Well," she tells him softly, "I'll make sure we get some plasters to your mummy, should she need them. But I'm sure she'll be out of the hospital before then."

Paul turns to her, eyes bright and hopeful, "really?"

She falters a little, but smiles convincingly, and the slip-up goes unnoticed by Paul, "of course! Now, I've got a little something for you for being so patient while you wait for your mummy to get better."

"What is it?" Paul clamours excitedly, all anxieties momentarily dispelled. She leads him by the hand through the hospital wards and up several flights of stairs till they reach a much cheerier room, with brightly coloured walls and baskets bulging with myriads of toys that Paul's hands _ache_ to reach, but he is soon distracted by a jar filled to the brim with multicoloured lollipops, and his fingers instantly reach out to grasp one.

"Here you go," she tells him with a wide grin, "take your pick!"

He deliberates between strawberry and blackcurrant for a good few seconds, and in the end the nurse presses both flavours into his hand with a wink.

“Thank you, miss!” he exclaims, fingers scrabbling to unwrap the first lolly and pop it in his mouth.

“Oi!” a tiny voice pipes up, and Paul swivels round to face a small boy with a mop of dishevelled tawny curls and large blue eyes with blankets tucked right up to his chin. He stares accusingly at Paul, who quickly hides his second lolly in his pocket and fixes the innocent doe-eyed expression onto his face that always works with adults.

“You didn’t take any of the orange lollies, did you?” he demands, eyes narrowed, and Paul shakes his head rapidly.

“No, I didn’t!” he says, affronted, “ _gross!”_

“The orange lollies are mine,” the boy tells him intently, turning to Olivia, “isn’t that right?”

Nurse Olivia laughs indulgently, brushing a stray curl from the strange boy’s forehead. “The lollies are here to be shared with everyone, Ritchie,” she reminds him, tapping his nose with a polished fingernail. _Ritchie_ grins delightedly, and Paul watches him with wide, fascinated eyes.

“What?” he asks, eyeing Paul’s lolly reproachfully.  

“Are you ill?” Paul blurts out.

“Appendicitis,” Ritchie tells him proudly, easily placated, and Paul nods as if he understands. “I had to get my appendix removed,” he adds unhelpfully, “if it had burst I might’ve _died!”_

“Poor Ritchie’s been in and out of hospital since he was four,” Nurse Olivia tells Paul, perching on the end of Ritchie’s bed with the sweetie jar sat tantalizingly close to his face. Paul watches as a little hand slips out from underneath the blanket and into the jar, grabbing a handful of orange lollies before retreating, triumphant. Oddly enough, the tiny hand is festooned with a multitude of rings in colours kaleidoscopic; perhaps the most stupendous of all being an ostentatious red jewel – probably a _real_ ruby, Paul thinks raptly – quite evidently a lady’s ring, but somehow there’s something ridiculously cool when it’s Ritchie sporting such an accessory; Ritchie, who seems to have survived the fiery pits of hell itself.

“Yes,” Olivia continues, breaking Paul’s trance, “he’s had all sorts thrown at him, haven’t you?”

“Bronchiolitis and tuberculosis,” Ritchie adds over the rustling of lolly wrappers. Paul nods in awe, sucking at his own lollipop in earnest.

It turns out, however, that Ritchie’s illnesses have meant he has missed a great deal of school, which Paul thinks is terrible bad luck. Nevertheless, he fills him in on the Wednesday roast dinners and the friendship cards and his lucky escapes from John Lennon, who is “the scariest boy in the whole school - not that _I’m_ scared of him. I’m not scared of anything. Except swede.”

“I miss school,” Ritchie laments lugubriously when Paul pauses his ramblings to catch his breath, “it isn’t half lonely, sat here on me own.” Paul promises to visit him as much as possible, and Ringo’s mouth stretches into an impossibly wide grin.

It turns out that Ritchie is two years his junior, making him ridiculously cool, and Paul listens attentively as the latter tells him all about the acquisition of his rings – they come from his late grandmother, it turns out, and he’s worn them for years, even though they’re constantly slipping off as his hands are so small (Paul has a sneaking suspicion that the rest of Ritchie must be pretty tiny too, but he doesn’t say so) and they’re technically speaking _girl’s_ rings.

“My family call me Ringo,” he tells Paul, and Paul giggles, trying the name out himself, “ _Ringo_ ,” he articulates slowly, grinning.

“You don’t mind that they’re... girly?” Paul whispers urgently, and Ringo shrugs insouciantly. “They look dead cool,” he grins easily, “that’s all that matters.” Paul watches contemplatively as Ringo waggles his fingers comically so that the rings catch the light, casting rainbows onto the tiled floors.

 

Come Monday Paul has copped a ring of his own; not quite as opulent as Ringo’s, but still fairly magnificent in its own way. His auntie – Mary’s sister – visits the hospital over the weekend and brings Paul’s older cousins with her; two boring mousey-haired giggly girls of eight and ten. Not unsurprisingly, they quickly grow bored of sitting around on the infamous orange chairs, and his aunt buys a handful of magazines from the hospital canteen to appease them. With one of the magazines comes a splendid silver ring engraved with a pretty heart-shaped gem, and Paul implores that they give it to him – the efficacy of his coercion heightened perhaps with the promise of a Freddo Frog in return - and soon the ring is his. He promptly asks nurse Olivia to escort him to the children’s ward and shows Ringo his new accessory, beaming delightedly as he declares it the prettiest ring he’s ever seen.

John Lennon is scowling with his chin buried in his palms when Paul enters the playground, squatting at the bottom of the slide so that it is blocked from the other children. If possible, he looks even more bedraggled than usual; his reddish curls stick out comically from his head, giving him a strange likeness to a hedgehog, and there are plasters stuck crookedly on both of his knees. Paul pointedly ignores him and instead makes his way toward George, who is sat cross-legged beside a bemused Pete, gesticulating wildly. Before he can show both boys his new ring somebody has forcefully grabbed his shoulder, and the grasping hold tells him that it is John Lennon.

“Hello,” Paul says pleasantly, wavering intonation betraying his nerves. John sneers, but there’s something different in his expression today, something vaguely resembling abashment.

“What’s that?” he demands, though not completely unkindly, gesturing to his hand. Paul proudly lifts his wrist to show John the ring; though he’s pretty sure he will not properly appreciate it due to his inferior taste he certainly won’t pass up an opportunity to show it off.

“It’s my ring,” he tells John proudly, holding his head high in spite of the nervous butterflies in his stomach.

“It’s a _girl’s_ ring,” John corrects him spitefully, but Paul simply sticks his nose in the air and says, “so what?”, before strutting over in George’s direction. At least _he’ll_ acknowledge good fashion.

Strangely enough, John leaves Paul alone for the remainder of the week. He doesn’t go so far as to smile at Paul – in fact, his trademark scowl appears even more ferocious than normal – but he lays low on the insults. Paul basks in his newfound freedom, and spends the week making wedding plans with Jane (unfortunately they disagree when it comes to locations; Paul wants a cottage in the heart of the country with dogs and sheep and horses and pigs, but Jane wants a swanky flat in the middle of London with one of those dreadful yappy lap-dogs) and fiddling about with George’s brother’s guitar, eventually figuring out how to play a C chord if he stretches his fingers just far enough. George has already mastered several chords, and plays the same sequence over and over again when Paul visits the Harrison household after school because his father spends all his hours at the hospital, and Paul has tired of the stark bright walls and the polished tiles and the horrid _clean_ smell that prickles his nostrils.

He does, however, make several visits throughout the week nonetheless, and thankfully his mum seems to be getting better; there is a healthy pink flush to her cheeks, and she has gained some of her old energy back. When she speaks to Paul her voice is still a little raspy, but the words are strung together coherently and this time he doesn’t object when she pulls him into one of her bone-crushing hugs before he leaves.

At the end of each visit he and nurse Olivia trail down to the children’s ward to visit Ringo, who is also making a quick recovery, and is even talking of returning to school soon – Paul himself is thoroughly excited to be able to show off his cool older friend on the playground. Ringo is also appreciative of Paul and George’s plans for rock stardom and sheepishly asks if they might consider letting him in the band (“I can’t play anything,” he admits sorrowfully, “but I’m sure I could learn!”), to which Paul assures him that his lack of any musical talent is of no matter – after all, he could always become a groupie. Admittedly he doesn’t know exactly what a groupie is, but he read about them once in one of his dad’s magazines. Besides, Ringo appears suitably impressed with his plethora of musical knowledge and responds in the affirmative to his preposition. When he tells George of their new band member he is delighted – particularly as he is a whole _two years_ older.

“Maybe he has hair _there_ ,” George breathes, pointing to his chest with a giggle.

By Friday he is in remarkably high spirits, and when Miss Ridley holds him back at breaktime and asks concernedly whether his mother is okay, he can safely say that she is getting better.

“The doctors said she just needed a few more tests and scans, then she’s free to go,” Paul tells her astutely, chin poised upward with a self-important tilt, and she offers him a weak smile.

“You don’t need to worry!” he insists, “Nurse Olivia told me she’ll be fine and she’s _always_ right.” Miss Ridley nods, but she still looks worried. Still, he disregards her concern and focuses instead on his band; perhaps they could play a rendition of _She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain_ at the school fete in the summer.

As Paul leaves the classroom lost in musical reveries John enters with his usual frown, but for once it is not aimed in Paul’s general direction; instead he is glaring (very bravely) at Miss Ridley, who appears undeterred. Paul deliberately slows down as he leaves, watching curiously as Miss Ridley sits John down and begins talking to him seriously. For once, Paul realises, John’s face is not marred with a frown; as they discuss something or other his features smooth over, and for a split-second his mouth even twitches into a toothy grin. He looks much pleasanter without that dreadful scowl, Paul concedes. Before he can dwell on that thought any further he is waved over to the sandpit by George, who has built them a stupendous rock star fort in his absence.

By mid afternoon he is sat cross-legged on the carpet between Pete, whose eyes dart alarmingly round the classroom in fear of a surprise attack from John, and George, who possibly frightens Pete even more with his unassailable intelligence and scrutinising stares. Paul scarcely pays attention to either of his friends, for he is eagerly awaiting the abundance of friendship cards he will no doubt receive this week. As Miss Ridley delves into the box and begins sorting the cards into piles – one of them significantly more impressive than the rest – his knee bounces up and down in excitement. Inevitably, the cards are dished out, and the largest stash belongs to Paul. He reads through each individual card eagerly and throws grins to various friends around the room in thanks, and tries desperately to ignore John, who is hunched up in the corner, decidedly alone, and, as expected, has received no friendship cards excluding the same poorly disguised drawing of a cat (he seems to like cats an awful lot – far more than he likes people) that Miss Ridley sends him almost every week. The same terrible guilty feeling tugs at Paul’s gut as he eyes John warily, waiting for him to look up and give him some sort of acknowledgement – whether it be a smile or the usual snide remark he scarcely cares now – but strangely, John simply rocks back and forth, staring unblinkingly at the carpet.

Paul quickly shifts his attention to the last card, which is hideously sticky with glue and positively _coated_ with glitter. He has to prise the pages apart forcibly to read the message, and the near-illegible scratchy writing leaves him perplexed, because someone has written _get well soon,_ signed with a smiley face and what appears to be a crown studded with pink hearts. It is rather a befuddling message considering he _isn’t_ ill, and nobody knows about his mum being hospitalized excluding George, who is hardly likely to draw him a _crown_ of all things.

He wonders briefly if Jane could have left him the note, but he’s received her card already; a carefully-drawn stick figure with spindly plaits and a triangular body holding hands with another figure, this time sporting a mop of dark curls piled atop his head in an unflattering manner and a pair of blue rectangular shorts. In return, he sends her a mildly passive-aggressive cartoon of a cow, a sheep and a pig.  

He casts his eyes suspiciously round the classroom, passing over George again, who is the world’s worst artist in spite of his intelligence and only ever leaves Paul long, detailed letters on scruffy bits of paper, and Pete, who sends Paul the same drawing of a bright blue sea and a lurid yellow beach every week. That leaves some twenty-odd children remaining, and he hasn’t the slightest clue which one of them it could be.  

Though he tries desperately to ignore John at all costs, lest he should catch him staring, he can hardly help letting his eyes linger on him for a moment, because he is rested with his chin upon his knees, staring directly at Paul with dark eyes. For once there is no malevolence in his expression. In fact, he appears almost entreating as he stares obstinately at Paul, forehead creased in concentration and fingers tip-tapping nervously against his thighs, which are enveloped by his arms so that he is sat in an awkward position with his knees drawn tight to his chest; almost defensive. Paul is quick to look away, painfully aware of the nervous flush creeping up his neck, and he stares down at the card wonderingly, cheeks burning.

Jim is late picking up Paul from school, so while the rest of the children file out of the classroom quickly he is left dithering on the playground, holding his new friendship cards close to his chest. He wonders if his mum is doing any better, but quickly stops himself. He has no need to worry, after all – the doctors have told him that she will be fine. She’s just having another of those scans, then she’ll be free to go. Conscious of the fact that his breathing has sped up considerably, Paul focuses on taking shallower breaths, leaning back against the bricked wall with a deep sigh. His complaints are emulated with an even deeper sigh, and Paul’s eyes snap open to meet John Lennon’s, who is sprawled on the floor with one leg pressed to his chest and the other stretched out languidly, drawing patterns onto the turf with his pointer finger.

Paul settles for ignoring him, because he’s alone and worried and the strange melancholy feeling he’s managed subdue for the past few days has crept up on him again now that he’s alone with his thoughts. There is nothing he would like less now than to be taunted by John Lennon.

Not moments later there is a presence beside him, and someone is breathing rather hurriedly, as if nervous, and when he turns slightly John has sidled up beside him, cheeks flaming.

“What?” Paul demands valiantly, determined not to let the unnerving presence get the better of him.

“Is your mum okay?” John blurts out suddenly, and Paul has to back away slightly to avoid the bouts of hot breath hitting his face. John ducks his head rather sheepishly, and Paul’s eyes widen when he acknowledges the question. For a moment he thinks of the abundance of dreadful tests and scans his mother is currently undergoing, and the grave look his father has had etched onto his face all week, but then he recalls the encouraging remarks from various doctors and nurses.

“She’s fine,” Paul tells him self-assuredly, “she’s better now.”

John blinks. “But you said – you were _crying!”_

“I was being a baby,” Paul says firmly, “like you said. There’s nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all.”

“You lied!”

“I did not!”

“You acted like – like she was _dying_ or something!”

“She’s not _dying!”_ Paul cries, “don’t be so – she’s not dying! She’s not!”

_“John Winston Lennon!”_

Both boys turn at the sharp voice, rapidly bringing their quarrel to a close. Paul doesn’t know the military-esque woman stood before him, but her blazing eyes and downturned lips are enough to shut him up, and even John seems slightly intimidated. Paul watches with wonder as he slips next to her with ruddy cheeks, ignoring Paul’s curious gaze.

“What are you doing loitering about on the playground? I’ve been waiting for you for the past ten minutes!” And thus John is hurried away, leaving Paul alone again, and as he exits the playground he sticks his tongue out to Paul in a manner somehow less threatening than usual. In spite of everything Paul allows him a small smile.

It is another ten minutes until Jim turns up; plenty of time for Paul to carefully consider John’s unorthodox behaviour and, more importantly, the mysterious card. By the time his father rushes into the playground and swiftly hauls him into a taxi so that they can stop via the hospital, he is still completely in the dark; and by the time they enter the strange other-universe that is the hospital, in all its dazzling whiteness, his mind is occupied elsewhere, and he soon abandons all thoughts of John Lennon in favour of his mother’s warm – albeit slightly shaky – embrace.

 


End file.
